


Demons within

by DracoIgnis



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 19th Century, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Demonic Possession, Demons, Developing Relationship, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Ghosts, Gothic, Horror, Jonerys, Paranormal, Thriller, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-01-04 00:59:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21188915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DracoIgnis/pseuds/DracoIgnis
Summary: Jon Snow arrives at the Targaryen residence to meet with Daenerys Targaryen, the last living heir to the family name. People believe her to be possessed - how else did she walk out of the flames unscathed whilst her brother perished? Jon wishes to determine whether a demon resides within her, but perhaps he has demons of his own. A Jonerys AU short story set in the 19th century. Contains original artwork.





	1. The woman who walked out the flames

..

As Jon exited the coach, he laid eyes on the Targaryen residence; it was a grand, gothic structure with elaborate spires that seemed to reach the clouds, thick flying buttress dripping from the heavy rain, and detailed glass-stained windows. When thunder lit up the sky, the painted pieces came alive, and images of wicked women and devilish men stared down at him.

_ These are not biblical stories, _ Jon thought as he gazed upon them. He did not recognise the tales depicted, but they did strike him as peculiar; women wielding swords upon fields of slain men, girls riding black-scaled dragons across the moonlit sky. _ I doubt they were created by men of honour, _ he thought and shuddered. Perhaps it was just the cold rain trickling down his back which made him shiver. Yet he found it hard to ignore the feeling of unrest that had awakened in him.

“Mr Snow,” the coachman called out to him, “I suggest you gather your belongings, else you might find them washed away to the fields.”

When Jon turned, he was surprised to find his possessions scattered on the muddy ground, the coachman more concerned with barking orders at the groom. The lad ran about, preparing the horses for the stable, and Jon sent him a pitiful look as he picked up his luggage. “I should like a hand to the hall,” Jon spoke, the cases heavy in his hands. 

“I gather that you would,” the coachman replied, however he made no move to assist.

Jon clenched his jaw, but thought better than to quarrel with a lady’s servant. It was alone that he hauled his possessions up the front steps, only pausing to catch his breath and glance upon the arch. It was decorated with goblins and nefarious figures cut out of the stone and, in the midst, the last name Targaryen spelled in decorative fashion.

_ It is a family estate, _ Jon reminded himself, _ and has been for centuries. Whatever is left of it, anyway. _

No butler emerged to greet him - instead, Jon was vexed as the coachman walked up the steps to stand beside him, his heavy boots dragging mud across the stone. He pulled off his hat and bashed it dry against his chest, drops of rain flinging off and hitting Jon, then turned and spat onto the ground. “I will be bold, Mr Snow,” he said, his voice gruff, “I do not care for you residing with the mistress.”

Jon, taken aback by his attitude, found himself speechless for a second. Then, he gathered himself enough to reply: “I understand it can be distressing to have strangers around, but I assure you that I will cause no trouble.”

“Men of your kind relish in trouble.”

“Whatever makes you say that?”

The man spat again and popped open the top button of his coat, clearly paying no regard to Jon whatsoever who looked stunned. “You’ve come here to enjoy the fresh countryside air, Mr Snow? Do not take us for fools. It may be we haven’t got the fineness of London, but we know how to look after our own.” He narrowed his eyes as he looked Jon up and down. “Should you trouble the mistress, you’ll soon find yourself on another coach back, but I shan't bother driving it.”

“What is your name?” Jon asked. His question seemed to catch the coachman off-guard, and Jon felt smug as he revelled in the man’s perplexion.

“Whatever for?” he asked, glancing into Jon’s grey eyes. He then spoke: “Mistress calls me Jorah.”

“Jorah,” Jon said, his voice sharp, “your concerns are touching, but I will tell you this - Miss Targaryen herself invited me to stay at her residence, so it shall be at her bidding that I take my leave, not yours.”

The coachman licked his teeth. For a moment, Jon was sure he was about to box his ears, but before either of them could make a move, the front door opened. A young woman greeted them; she was clad in a long, blue dress, the silk heavily layered and her black, curly hair reaching just above her bared shoulders. When she gazed upon them, Jon found no warmth in her brown eyes.

“Good evening,” she spoke, but did no curtsy. “My name’s Missandei. I will take you to your room, Mr Snow.”

Jon took off his hat in haste as he bowed his head at her. “Miss,” he spoke, but before he could say else, she had already taken her leave, walking down the corridor before him with the clear expectation that he would follow suit.

“Go on, then,” Jorah spoke, grabbing a hold of two of his suitcases as he swiftly followed Missandei, and Jon could only gather the rest of his muddy possessions in haste as he hurried to keep up.

The entranceway had been kept to its original style; grand stone pillars reached up to form a rib vault as grand as any church he’d visited. Jon found himself gazing up in amazement as he walked, the sound of their footsteps being thrown around between the cold tiles. The only thing keeping the place alight were oil lamps installed alongside the halls, their flicker barely illuminating their way. Wherever he looked, he saw shadows moving, and he couldn’t quite discern if they belonged to them or some servant lurking in the darkness.

As Missandei led on, they reached more modern quarters; the rooms were traditional for the time, with patterned wallpaper, heavy wooden furnish and decorative mirrors.

Feeling the silence unbearable, Jon felt compelled to comment: “The lady of the house has a refined taste.” However, neither Jorah nor Missandei offered him as much as a nod. So they walked on in silence, down corridors and up stairways, until they reached the west-wing of the castle.

Here, Missandei stopped before a door, hand on handle, as she turned to face Jon once more. “Mr Snow,” she spoke, “these will be your quarters.” She swung the door open and stepped aside, allowing him to walk across the threshold.

It was a poor room; the walls were lacking paint, the decor more befitting a farmer’s lot than a castle, and Jon could only make out three distinct pieces of furnishing; a desk and chair by the window, a wardrobe nestled in the corner, and the bed, low and short, sitting up against the wall.

_ Is this a joke? _ Jon thought, but when he turned to look at Jorah, the man just dropped his suitcases inside the room with no sign of care. He then took off in silence, his harsh eyes being the last thing Jon saw disappear down the hallway.

Instead, he turned to Missandei. “Miss,” he said, “I was hoping to meet with your mistress.”

“There is no mistress of me,” Missandei said.

Jon wrinkled his nose. “I’d like to speak to miss Targaryen,” he clarified vexed.

At this, the girl nodded. “Miss Targaryen would not like to be disturbed at this hour. I trust you understand it would not be befitting for her to conduct business with a strange man at this hour?” Her brows raised slightly, as if awaiting the judgement of Jon, and Jon shook his head in haste.

“Of course not,” he said, “but-”

“Goodnight, Mr Snow. I trust we shall meet again tomorrow.” Once more, without a curtsy or nod, she walked the same way that Jorah had, leaving Jon to the silent darkness of the room.

He closed the door, then laid his hat upon the desk as he ran his fingers through his wet locks. “This is truly a peculiar place,” he spoke, before a smile broke on his lips, “It seems I did not come in vain.”

* * *

> _03/10/1802:_
> 
> _ I have arrived at the Targaryen residence. It is, as rumoured to be, a place that demands admiration and pause; one would be dimwitted not to awe at the architecture of the estate, but just as much a fool to enter without hesitation. So far, I have not met with miss Daenerys Targaryen, but I have made acquaintance with few peculiar members of the household. I sense I am not welcome, but I shall not falter in my faith that I come to do good. _
> 
> _ My guise is simple: I am a businessman from London looking to obtain parts of the Targaryen lands. For this purpose, I have been invited to stay, but in my accommodation I sense the same disdain that I felt from my arrival. I have been given quarters more befitting a serving girl than a man of my status. I do not yet know if this is in jest, but my findings will be clearer once I meet with the mistress. _
> 
> _ I am at once excited and concerned to lay eyes upon her. It is known that demons tempt men by taking on a most pleasing of forms, so I trust she shall be beautiful. Yet evil bleeds through even the thickest human facade; I shall look for signs of wicked, and nothing shows the soul better than the eyes. I hope when I gaze into hers, things will clear for me at once. _

* * *

At the crack of dawn, Jon was awoken by the sound of a piano being played.

As he stumbled out of bed and dragged the curtains aside, it was only the slightest of lights that met him. The cold morning sun barely grazed the horizon, and as far as he could see, darkness clad the fields. Yet, the music persisted with as much vigour as one could expect when entertaining.

_ But who would be visiting at this hour? _ Jon mused, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Still he dressed; his tailcoat was navy and his knee breeches sandy velvet, a perfect combination that would allow him to appear tidy yet not unduly formal for the time of the day. On his way out, he grabbed his hat as well, and he held it tight to his chest as he walked the hallway, seeking his way back to the main hall.

The music seemed to echo between the many halls of the castle, making it difficult for Jon to discern from which direction it came. In one moment, he sought right, and the tunes would get louder before suddenly moving to his left, causing him to turn corners at a whim.

_ This place is far too grand, and far too desolate, _ Jon thought as he realised he’d not come across a single servant since leaving his room. _ I wonder if the mistress’ situation is more dire than I thought. _ Still, he was not concerned; as the minutes passed, more of the hazy morning light seeped in through the stained windows, causing the floor before him to be illuminated with colours. As they danced around him, he could not feel the same unrest he had upon his arrival in the dark. Rather, he felt his heart lighten, and a keenness in him started to grow. He wished to track down the mysterious musician, and he soon realised he was just on the brink of discovery.

He stopped at a door as he listened. There, beyond the wood, the piano was being played skillfully. The tunes glided from beneath the door and through the hall, and he almost felt like he’d entered a ballroom despite not yet gazing into the room. He wanted nothing more than to slipper inside quietly to admire the artist at work, but etiquette demanded better of him. So he lifted his hand and placed a gentle knock on the wood.

At once, the music stopped.

Jon blinked in surprise. _ I am not even certain my knocking was audible, _ he thought, but the quietness resumed all the same. Slowly, he knocked once more, before calling: “My apologies - this is only Jon Snow. May I enter?” As he got no reply, Jon slipped his hand to the handle and, having looked around to ensure no one was watching him, pushed the door open.

The drawing room before him was neat; the walls were pale pink and decorated with paintings of flowers, all of them enclosed in golden frames. A few wooden chairs were prodded against the wall next to tables set for tea. Yet it was the grand piano that caught Jon’s attention, for as he glanced upon the seat, he found it to be empty.

_ Peculiar, _ Jon thought as he walked across the carpeted floor. He kept close to the wall, his gaze resting on the piano. _ But nothing I have not experienced before. _ As he neared the window, he reached for the still drawn curtains. The fabric was heavy in his hands, and he took a strong hold of it, staring at the seat as he drew the curtains at once, allowing the room to be flooded in light, and he spoke: “Begone at once!”

But there were no screams from spirits nor ghosts, only a chuckle could be heard. As he turned on his heels, he saw a lady standing in the doorway, watching him intensely.

“What manner of speech is that?” she asked, resting her hands at her front as she clucked her tongue. “I feel most unwelcome in my own home.”

The lady was a short, pale woman. Jon deemed she could be no older than twenty-eight. Her hair hung in silver ringlets around her face and down her shoulders, the pale skin bared by a bertha neckline. Her dress was black - it sat tight at her small waist shaped by a corset, but hung wide past her hips, the hemline brushing perfectly above the floor. She looked elegant, Jon thought - like a perfect widow in mourning.

“Miss Targaryen, I presume?” Jon spoke and, as she nodded, swiftly walked to her as he bowed. “Jon Snow. I am pleased to finally make your acquaintance.”

“I should think so,” she spoke boldly. Though her face was neutral, her eyes twinkled as she spoke: “I never knew a man to sleep this late.”

“I apologise,” Jon said, “I was awoken by the piano being played. I fear I lost myself in the hallways, and time must have passed.”

“You must have strong legs, Mr Snow, if you claim to have been walking since sunrise. It is just past noon.”

Jon blinked at her. “Past noon, miss?” he repeated and watched her nod. “Surely you jest.”

“First you ask me to begone, and now you take me for a jester?” She pursed her lips and shook her head sadly. “I fear I should’ve listened to my coachman - men from London do seem rather crass.”

It was only then, as Jon turned and glanced out the window, that he realised she must be speaking the truth; no darkness clung onto the fields, and the sun had long risen from the horizon to the sky, its light cold but bright on the blue backdrop.

_ Something is amiss, _ Jon thought, feeling his heartbeat quicken, but he managed to keep his face in neutral folds as he turned back to Daenerys.

“Miss,” he spoke, “I am truly sorry. I hope I have not already caused upset?”

“Do not think me frail. I enjoy solitude, this is true, or else I would not remain in these desolate parts. But I fear this also means that I am no longer well-versed in etiquette. For you to cause upset, you would have to be exceptionally disagreeable.”

Jon nodded at her words and was about to add another apology, but before he could, he found her gaze seeking down his body, then back to his face, and she plainly said:

“From sight, you are not at all disagreeable, so I think you are in luck.”

At her words, Jon felt himself flush, and he held his hat a bit tighter to his chest. “Miss,” he said, and looked into her eyes, trying to discern if she meant to make him feel foolish. But in her gaze, he found only passion. It was a strange thing to emerge from a lady of her standing; such a raw emotion of honest yearning which he couldn’t quite pinpoint. Was it for salvation, which he had come to offer, or lack thereof, her soul craving something a pure mind could not offer?

As the minutes passed, Jon felt himself unable to keep the stare, and he averted his eyes sadly.

There was almost a pleasant tone to Daenerys’ voice as she spoke: “Mr Snow, you must be starved. I will have my kitchen staff prepare us lunch. In the meantime, would you care to walk the grounds with me?”

“I would love to, miss,” Jon agreed, his gaze slipping to the empty piano. _ Anywhere but here. _

* * *

“This was where the fire started.”

Jon gazed upon the back of the castle, the expression on his face solemn. It was not a pretty sight; parts of the outer wall had come undone, the stone reduced to a pile of rubble on the ground, and the arched windows stood hollow like gaping mouths. Pieces of charred wood hung from the second floor of the building, waving lightly in the breeze, but the flames had eaten all the decor. Jon could only recognise a lone piece of wallpaper still clinging onto the back-wall.

The air was chilly. Rain still covered the muddy ground and now, further afield, he could see darkened clouds approach. He shuddered lightly in his garbs and took a stronger hold of his walking stick. “When did this take place?” he queried.

Daenerys rested her hands at her front as she glanced up across the ruined building. “Must be four years ago now,” she spoke, “although I remember it as yesterday.”

“How was the fire contained?”

“Truly, I do not know. We feared it would ravish the whole of the estate. Imagine our surprise when it took just this wing.”

“Was an investigation ever undertaken?”

“In part, but not much could be found in the ashes. You see the rubble - what can be discerned from broken stone?”

“Still, it’s peculiar that-”

“Mr Snow.” Daenerys voice was perfectly pleasant but sharp. When he looked at her, he found her eyes urged him to quiet. “I trust you understand it was an unpleasant eve for all of us involved. Please do not attempt to have me dwell on misery.”

Jon felt embarrassed by her phrasing. “I apologise, miss, I never intended-” he started, but he stopped himself before he could explain. Instead, he merely tucked at his hat as he averted his eyes. “I apologise.”

“The place used to be famed for its balls. Now, the Targaryens are known for the raging fire.” She shook her head sadly as they walked on, past the overgrown fields and further around to the front again. It was a long walk, for the estate spanned far, and Jon found himself trying to estimate its size in their passing. “I am sure that is what caught your attention as well.”

Jon nodded, prodding his walking stick at the ground before them. “It is land that I seek,” he spoke, the lie easy on his lips. “I do not intend to make this unpleasant, miss, for I know you would not consider selling your grounds if not for this tragedy.”

“Yet you make a business of unpleasantries,” she spoke. “It is the truth, Mr Snow - I am of good fortune, but even a family of wealth would struggle to reconstruct such a grand part of the castle. It will take many years, and many hours, and much more coin that I have to part with at this moment in time.”

“I hope we will come to an agreement in time,” Jon spoke, “although first, I wish to see the lands and consider the prospects.”

“Oh, I am sure you can imagine many a prospect here,” she said, smiling for the first time.

Jon felt his heart flutter at the sight. Her lips were so sweet when turned upwards, and he could not find a single shred of evil reflected in her violet eyes. “Yes, miss,” he merely spoke, unable to come up with better words. “I am sure.”

* * *

> _04/10/1802:_
> 
> _ I have gazed upon the place where she walked out of the flames. It is indeed as described to me in London; whilst the front of the estate remains untouched, the back has collapsed, and no attempt has yet been made at restoration. It appears a great fire must have roared that night, for not a single piece of glass remains, and no furnishing survived. _
> 
> _ I am unable to logically justify how her brother perished whilst she stands before me today. The townspeople will have me believe she is a demon. It is difficult to diffuse these claims when you see the site. Not only did she survive, but the fire was strangely contained to just part of the property. It is as if the flames succumbed once they’d eaten away the wing. It is not clear to me how this is possible. Perhaps I must seek advice from experts upon my return. _
> 
> _ For now, it seems the mistress believes me to have an interest in her lands. Tomorrow, I shall explore the fields to satisfy this narrative before I seek her company once more. She has not yet shown any signs of the supernatural; she enjoys solitude, yet seems to revel in catching me out. I shall take care not to speak in err. If she is to suspect that my only interest is in her state of mind, I am sure she will show me the door at once. I do not trust her coachman will take me back toward home. In fact, I sense he would not let me see daylight again should any upset befall to his mistress. I must remain wary. _

* * *

Jon woke feeling unrested. In fact, as he laid in bed staring at the ceiling, he found himself uncertain whether it was still in the midst of night, or if the sun would soon be rising.

He had dreamt of flames. _ It is only natural, _ he thought and yawned, _ after all, we did only just speak of the fire yesterday. _ Yet, his heartbeat was still quickened, and he felt sickly in his throat. Though he tried to force his tired eyes to shut, he felt his eyelids slip open and, unable to find rest, finally made peace with getting out of bed.

Jon dressed for a day outside; he donned his dark coat and boots, his hat and walking stick, and he set off down the hallway, his steps more certain than yesterday. The night before, he had taken care to remember every turn he took when following Missandei, and he traced his way back, mapping the estate in his mind. But, as he was about to turn the corner to the main hall, something caught his eyes:

There, on his right, was Daenerys. Though her back was turned on him, he was sure it was her; dressed in all black, from the satin hemline to the thin top, the collar sitting high on her neck, and, most peculiar, a black veil hanging down over her braided hair, the light fabric fluttering as she walked.

_ She is dressed as if attending a funeral, _ Jon pondered, and he stopped in his tracks. As he watched her walk, he sensed something was amiss. At first, he was unable to determine what troubled him so, but it was as she slipped around the corner that he realised. _ She is not walking, _ he thought, his throat clenching, and his feet automatically turning to follow, _ she is floating. _

Jon followed with quickened steps, only pausing as he reached the corner. As he glanced down the hall, he saw her slowly moving ahead, her body shimmering just above the floor. _ It is my imagination, _ he assured himself, though he still walked behind her, his steps quicker than hers, catching up, _ She must be walking. I cannot see her feet. She must be treading ever so carefully, perhaps on her toes, that it just seems to me that she is floating. _

The place was dark. No oil lamps had yet been lit, and the only glimmer of light was from the candles burning in the golden holder in Daenerys’ hand. The fickle light caused shadows to dance around them. Jon felt there were more shadows than just the two of them. In fact, as she slipped around another corner and he followed suit, the next hallway seemed even more alive, the shadows moving in tens, stretching so far up the walls that he could not sense where they ended.

_ It is my imagination, _ he reminded himself once more, his steps quickening now as he was almost at her side. _ It is my imagination. It is my imagination. _

Once more, Daenerys disappeared around a corner, and once more Jon followed, only to be met with a door slammed in his face. For a moment, he stood and blinked, surprised at the abrupt end to the hallway, but then he grabbed at the handle and pushed the door open.

His frame was immediately bathed in light. Before him was a kitchen, the fire burning lively, and in front of the fireplace sat two people drinking tea. As he entered, they looked up at once; there was Missandei, her brown eyes as unwelcoming as ever, and next to her sat a man still a stranger to Jon. His hair was cut close to his head, and a frown rested on his face, deepened by the flicker of the flames.

“Good morning,” Jon spoke surprised. He slipped off his hat at once and nodded at them both. “Forgive me, I must have lost myself.”

“It seems you have,” the man replied brusquely. He started to get up, but Missandei placed her hand on his arm and led him back into his seat.

“Please let me introduce my husband,” Missandei said, sounding anything but pleased. “This is Grey.”

“A pleasure,” Jon said and reached out his hand, but Grey just looked at it. He slowly withdrew it, grasping at his walking stick once more as he eyed their tea. “It seems I intrude. Please excuse me.”

“Should you want for tea?” Missandei asked.

Jon blinked, surprised at her question. As he didn’t immediately answer, she stood up and gestured at the kettle, and he found himself naturally nodding in agreement. “Tea would be pleasant,” he spoke, placing his hat upon the table as he seated himself. _ This is good, _ he thought, sending Grey a smile and getting none in return. _ Learning what people the mistress associates herself with will help me determine her character. _

As tea was served, Jon had a sip, silently sighing as the brew touched his lips. He had not realised how cold he was, but it now seemed obvious as his body warmed by the fire, and his hands came back to life once more. Still, a shiver lingered on his spine whenever his mind slipped to the image of Daenerys floating. _ Wherever did she go, _ he wondered and glanced about the kitchenette.

“No breakfast is prepared,” Missandei spoke curtly, “if that is what your eyes seek.”

“Not at all,” Jon hastened to clarify, “it is just that I had the most peculiar feeling right now.” He glanced at her. She did not ask him to elaborate, but her brows furrowed slightly, and that was enough of an invite to Jon. “I believe I saw miss Targaryen walk into this very room.”

“People see a great deal of things in the dark,” Missandei replied easily. “Perhaps we need to light the lamps, only we did not expect you to be up at this hour.”

“I could not sleep,” Jon admitted, “I had no intend to trouble you already.”

“Yet here you are,” Missandei spoke.

Jon sipped his tea as he thought, _ It is strange. Servants in London would never be this brash with their guests, yet she speaks as if this is the norm. I wonder what their mistress would think if she was to hear how she quibbers like a lady. _

It was as if Missandei had heard his thought, for she spoke: “I have no mistress.”

“Forgive me,” Jon said.

“You ask forgiveness a lot,” Grey noted, his voice as harsh as his eyes. “Perhaps you should rest your tongue, and there would be less to forgive.”

At his words, Missandei smiled a little, and it seemed to calm her attitude. At least she nursed her tea for a while before speaking again: “Mr Snow, I understand you come from a different kind of household to ours, so please allow me to explain - there are no servants. Miss Targaryen is not our mistress.”

“I believe when I spoke to the coachman, he referred to her just as such,” Jon spoke, more in hopes of clarifying than annoying.

At this, Grey was the one to smirk. “It is true, he sees it as a sign of disrespect not to treat her as a lady of the house. And it is true, she does own the estate and all within.”

“So she is your mistress,” Jon concluded.

Missandei gave him a pitiful smile. “You do not see equals where you walk, Mr Snow,” she said, “or you would not walk these grounds at all.” Then, before he could ask another question, she said: “I urge you to drink your tea, and save your queries for miss Targaryen. She will have more patience with you than I.”

_ That much is true, _ Jon thought, drinking his tea as Missandei and Grey returned to their own quiet conversation, seemingly not caring whether he remained or not. _ This place is most peculiar. _

* * *

It took slyness, but Jon was able to borrow a horse from the stables. He bided his time; once the coachman Jorah went off to breakfast, he approached the groom. The young lad seemed so perplexed to be spoken to that Jon merely had to lie:

“Miss Targaryen wishes for me to see her grounds. I shall have a horse for this purpose.” At once, a fine, black stallion was prepared, and he went off riding in the rising sun.

The grounds were huge. Jon found himself passing fields, and woodlands, and even lakes and ponds, and still he realised that he had not yet reached the edge of the estate._ Targaryens spent centuries building up this fortune, _ he reminded himself, _ they bought lands, always expanding their grounds. _

Yet now, Daenerys was looking to sell in the mere hope that she might be able to rebuild the property. Although Jon had no plans to seriously entertain the potential of owning land, the thought did sadden him somewhat. _ To lose part of your history, merely due to unfortunate circumstances - I cannot imagine how it must pain her so. _

Jon owned no lands. In fact, when he thought of home, his mind did not even rest on a property. Home was merely the existence of London - a place of opportunity, business, and good folk. A place of change and memory all at once. It was the base from which he worked, expanding on his knowledge on all things supernatural.

Jon’s tasks varied; at times, he entertained university students, their minds at once sceptical and eager for the idea of another world. Other times, he assisted families in true need of his help, either determining their properties haunted, or chasing demons from their very bodies. He believed himself to be a man of reason and of science - he used the techniques he had learned and his knowledge on human nature to determine whether he was dealing with cases of disillusion or true possessions, and he used his proven skills to cure.

_ And it seems I shall put my scientific mind to good use here as well, _ Jon thought as he rode back toward the Targaryen castle, his horse tiring from the day, _ for there is much still to be discovered. _

A strong bloodline. A wealthy family name. A sole survivor. A woman who had walked from the flames unscathed whilst her only sibling perished. When Jon first heard the tale, his interest was piqued. People had been quick to make hasty decisions - either it was a fairy tale, or it was a clear case of demonic possession. Jon, however, had yet to collect enough facts to make any determination. _ My mind is still clouded by what I hope to discover, rather than by what I know, _ he thought, thinking back to the image of Daenerys floating down the hallways. _ I cannot yet be certain I am seeing clearly. _

By the time Jon arrived back at the estate, the sky had darkened and his stomach was hungry. He handed over the stallion to the groom, the lad appearing thankful to see his return, and he started walking his way from the stable to the front of the building as a light caught his attention.

There, on the second floor, where the stained windows were replaced with clear glass, he saw light turn on. As the room brightened, a figure appeared in the window, and as Jon paused to take a closer look, he realised it was Daenerys.

To his awe, she was in the exact outfit that he’d seen her wear that morning in his sighting; the black veil hung down across her face, making it impossible for him to discern if she was facing him or turned away, and her body was clad in the black dress, the fabric falling heavily around her hips, layered to perfection.

For a moment, he lifted his hat and narrowed his eyes as he thought she may be looking his way - but then, at once, he realised that her dress was coming undone, and before he knew of it, it fell around her shoulders, her naked collar bones exposed to him. Soon followed her corset; her fingers worked skillfully along its back, and as it fell, she was in nothing but a thin underdress, the white fabric fluttering around her small frame.

Jon was astonished. For a moment, he was too shocked to be ashamed, his eyes roaming Daenerys’ body as she turned in front of the window, her hands slowly pulling off the fabric, revealing her naked flesh inch by inch. It was only as she reached her bosom that he realised what he was seeing, and he turned, his cheeks burning with shame at his own brazen lack of respect. He hurried onward, his steps quick on the dark, muddy ground.

Yet, he couldn’t help himself - as he was about to turn to the front of the building, he found himself glancing back over his shoulder. Only then, there was no light in the window, and Daenerys’ frame was long gone.

* * *

> _05/10/1802:_
> 
> _ I must remind myself that there are many ways in which possessions manifest themselves. Many who think of demonic possessions only know the kind that causes violence to occur, wickedness to be spoken, the human body to contort, perhaps a person to speak in tongues. But we must not forget that other kinds of signs exist; a gentleman who suddenly becomes brash and rude to his peers, a decent lady who indulges in fornication, or a pure mind that is at once wrecked with sinful thoughts. These are all signs of the chaos that evil spirits can cause. _
> 
> _ Tonight, I saw miss Targaryen undress, and I must admit that she has led my thoughts astray. I am unable to determine fault in this situation; a proper lady should not be undressing in front of the window, lest anyone should see. Yet a perfect gentleman would not have stopped to enjoy the sight, but carried on as if he had taken no heed. _
> 
> _ I am ashamed to say that I stood for longer than it took my mind to realise what was happening before me. Perhaps it is because I have been without company for a while, and the fresh countryside air is bringing life back to my body in ways I did not expect. But more concerning is the idea that if evil resides within this house, it is taking over me and is twisting my mind. _
> 
> _ I am at a moral loss; either, I am not the man I thought myself to be, or I am played just like miss Targaryen might be - by forces beyond my recognition. _
> 
> _ Tomorrow, I shall meet her for breakfast and see if she remembers last night. It shall be the first step to my salvation, and, perhaps, hers. _

* * *

Jon was awoken by something heavy on his chest. It pressed him down, so far into the mattress that he felt the bed creak beneath him, and when he tried to breathe in, he found that he could not fully fill his lungs.

_ This is a wicked dream, _ Jon thought, twisting beneath the force above him. He moaned in his sleep, his hands waking up at his sides, the numbness in his fingers subsiding as they slowly crept across the mattress. _ I am awake in my own nightmare. I must force myself to get up. _

At first, caught somewhere between reality and dream, Jon could not force his eyes open. Instead, his fingers pushed across his chest and up, trying to fight off the feeling of heaviness; but, as his hands brushed across cold skin, he felt his heartbeat stop at once.

There, beneath his fingertips, he found another person’s hands. They were small and cold, but ever so strong, and as he stretched up across them, his hands brushing across a stranger’s arms, he felt the person seat themselves heavily atop of him.

It was then he realised that he was no longer covered by the duvet; his naked body was exposed to the cool, clammy air of the room, and the person atop him was just as cold. The only heat he could feel was from his groin, and it was with shock that Jon soon realised he was inside someone, the person atop of him riding him, their hands on his chest pressing him down.

As he blinked, he saw something familiar; a white underdress that had ridden up past a woman’s hips, the straps slipping off her naked shoulders, inviting him to take in more of her flesh, and there, beneath a thin, black veil, was Daenerys’ face.

“Miss!” Jon heard himself gasp in shock. _ I am dreaming, _ he assured himself, yet she seemed so alive as she rode him like a mare at night, making his body pulsate with lust. He wriggled beneath her, his fingers closing at her wrists, and he arched back into the mattress, his emotions bouncing between shock and pleasure.

_ It is a dream, yet I cannot breathe, _ Jon realised, his throat closed. Perhaps it was the weight on his chest, so unnaturally heavy for a woman her size. Perhaps it was his tongue, dried out and stuck at the back of his mouth. But the lack of air made him dizzy, even more so as she started riding him with more furor, her body moving in frames above him. It was like he could only sense her at once place at a time - like a piece of paper flickering in the wind, not a living person moving with grace. “Miss…”

The veil brushed across his face as she leaned down, her face coming closer to his. Her violet eyes locked his gaze in place, her lips parted, and soon she spoke to his mouth:

“Mr Snow - it is time to _ wake up._”


	2. The man who banished his darkness

..

In the pale morning light, Jon was breathless. He could only remember being awake for minutes, yet his body was cold and stiff as had he laid still for hours. When he moved, his muscles ached, and it was with care that he sat up in bed and glanced toward the window. Through the open shutters, a cool breeze was filling the room, still the gentle wind felt warm against his clammy skin.

_ It was just a dream, _ Jon reminded himself, and he placed his hand onto his chest as he tried to calm his heart, _ It was just a nightmare. _But when he closed his eyes, the images from the night before played on his lids as a wicked ballet; there, he saw Daenerys, her pale body hovering his, and he drowned in her violet eyes, her whisper being the last thing he heard before succumbing to darkness.

Forcing his eyes open, it was with haste that Jon scurried to the wash basin and cleaned his face with the frosty water. He scrubbed until his skin was red, as if the simple act of washing could cleanse his mind, and he donned his check brown trousers and linen shirt before he headed out to breakfast.

Perceiving himself frazzled, Jon moved swiftly, his eyes focused only on the hall ahead of him as he made his way through the estate. As before, the sun streamed through the stained glass windows and made colourful patterns dance around his feet, yet he didn’t sense the same joy he had the first morning it happened. Instead, he felt mercilessly out of place. It was only natural; his home was in London where the bustle of the city flowed with the same vigour as blood in a young man’s veins. In comparison, the Targaryen residence was more like a church in its grandness that demanded quiet respect.

_ Before I walked with admiration, and the castle opened itself, _ Jon thought, _ but now, it seems its walls are closing in on me, determined to suffocate me. _ He pushed his fingertips into the collar of his shirt as he eased the fabric’s hold on his neck, and he felt grateful when he finally rounded a corner and laid eyes on the dining room.

The table was set for two. Jon stopped in the doorway, but it was not the breakfast that demanded his attention but the figure by the window. He gazed upon Daenerys; her back was facing him, and he took in the sight of her silver hair tied back in a neat bun, and the blue dress tucked in at her waist. Yet it was her exposed, pale shoulder that caused his heart to skip a beat, and he shyly averted his eyes before she could catch him staring.

“Good morning, miss,” he spoke and bowed his head slightly.

Daenerys turned to look at him. As he met her eyes, he found them not to be vile, but as kind as her voice as she greeted him: “Good morning, Mr Snow. Did you sleep well?”

Jon swallowed yet forced himself to reply with the pleasantries expected of a guest. “Yes, miss,” he spoke, “very well.”

“The groom says you rode the grounds last night. I trust you found them satisfactorily?”

“The lands are beautiful,” Jon agreed. “I feel very at home.” He was not pleased with lying to a lady, and for a moment he feared Daenerys would call him out on his words as her eyes roamed his figure with disdain.

“I see that,” she finally spoke, her face perfectly neutral, “else you should not attempt to dine with me in such attire.”

For a moment, Jon was confused, but as he glanced down at himself, he flushed crimson. In his keenness to leave his chamber that morning, he had not even put on a vest, and his clothing was more befitting for lounging at home than dining with a lady. “Forgive me,” Jon said, “I fear I have lost my manners.”

“I fear you have indeed. I saw you yesterday.”

“I do not follow, miss?”

Daenerys slowly walked to the table, and, noting that no servants were around to assist, Jon went to pull out the chair for her. As he waited for her to sit, she instead paused and looked into his eyes. Her voice was calm as she warned: “Do not presume I do not know everything that happens on my grounds. A visitor’s conduct determines his character more than his wealth.”

Jon was taken aback until his memory stirred. The image of Daenerys undressing in her window came to mind, and his voice shook lightly as he spoke: “Miss, I can only apologise. My actions were indeed unforgivable.”

“It took me a while to convince my coachman not to treat you harshly,” Daenerys said.

“Your coachman?” Jon asked.

“For borrowing a horse without permission?” she specified. “Were you referring to other events?”

Jon felt his heart lighten at once, and he bowed his head to cover the relief in his eyes. “No, miss, you are correct. I shall offer him my apologies later.” He pushed in the chair as she seated herself, then went to claim a seat at the opposite end of the table.

“As peculiar as it may sound, I feel I will enjoy conducting business with you, Mr Snow,” Daenerys spoke as she unfolded the napkin on her plate. She looked at him boldly as she smiled: “You are a person of action. Perhaps it’s my lack of acquaintances in these parts that have caused my unusual taste, but I find it to be a pleasing trait in a man.”

Jon mulled on her words as he tried to discern if she jested, yet he sensed only honesty in her voice. So he returned the smile. “Thank you, miss, I shall strive to be upfront with you in matters.”

“We will see,” Daenerys spoke, and in her eyes Jon sensed the yearning he noticed on their first meeting.

_ What is it you seek? _ he pondered as they ate in silence. _ What game are you playing? _

* * *

> _ 06/10/1802: _
> 
> _ I have gazed into the eyes of the mistress and found no sign of evil. As such, I am forced to look within myself for the reason behind my nightmares. Perhaps I am not burdened in a spiritual sense, but by my own lack of restraint. I have looked upon my host with lust, and it has bled into my dreams. Sleeping is a time for the mind to rest, yet I have allowed my heart to rule in the hours of darkness. _
> 
> _ Still I ask - what has caused my guard to fall down? Whence did I become so weak? I feel wickedness in the very walls that surround me. The longer I stay, the more certain I am that the very ground I walk is cursed. But if this is true, then one of two statements must be right; either, miss Targaryen is unaffected, and the pain is mine alone. Or, and this troubles me more - perhaps we are both feeling the effect of demonic possession, and we act it out in the devil’s hour. For it is only during times of darkness that peculiar situations take place. During the day, one could be forgiven to think the residence a peaceful place to retreat. _
> 
> _ Hence I have no choice but to test my theory. Tonight I shall not sleep. Tonight I shall remain awake, and come what may come. I only pray I have the strength to stay true to my course. _

* * *

At nightfall, Jon struggled to keep his eyes open. He was sat in his chamber with a book, one of many from the estate’s library that Daenerys had invited him to peruse, but though the oil lamp shone brightly, the words on the page seemed to bleed together and make little sense. Whilst he had first been on edge, watching every flickering shadow on the wall before determining it to be his own, he was now too tired to move an inch. Instead, he found himself leaning back in his chair, his gaze seeking the moon outside the window.

It was a windy night. The shutters clapped against the stone walls. Rain could be heard drumming upon the roof. In this desolate part of the castle, no servants were moving about, and the only other sound was from his own breathing. It was slowing down. Jon pinched the skin on his hand to stay awake.

_ If there are demons at play, I must be ready, _ he reminded himself and yawned. _ I cannot allow myself to relax. _ He closed his eyes and rubbed them clear of sleep, but when he blinked them back open, he found the oil lamp long burned out, and the only speck of light to be from a lone candle.

His lips were dry. He smacked them together as he tried to orientate himself in the dark room. _ Was I asleep? _ he wondered. When he glanced out the window, he found there was no longer any moon visible in the sky. In fact, he found he could not see the sky at all.

For a moment, he was puzzled. Then, it dawned on him - it was not that the clouds were pushing together so tightly that they covered the stars. The darkness was caused by a person standing in front of the glass.

As sudden as the shape of a woman became clear to him, as sudden did she climb atop of him, keeping him settled in the chair. He felt her legs dig into his own, her skirt rising, and her hands pushing across his chest, across his shoulders, all the way around his neck.

Jon did not breathe. He sat quietly, his gaze fixated on the woman’s black dress, and only slowly did he dare to lift his eyes until he glanced into her own violet ones.

“Miss Targaryen,” he whispered, and from behind a black veil the mistress smiled back at him. She did not speak, she merely settled atop of him, her lips pressing to his, the flimsy fabric of the veil being the only thing keeping their skin apart.

Daenerys’ breath was warm on his lips, even more so when he felt her tongue pry for access. In his body, he felt an ache - it was as if his very soul begged to let her have him. _ But this is not the mistress, _ Jon thought, and he felt his heartbeat quicken as his mind awoke once more. Through the fog of passion he suddenly realised: _ This is just a shadow of her. _

It was only with sheer force that Jon managed to overcome the want of his body, and he found himself pushing her off his lap as he cried:

“I will not be fooled!” He stood up, but the mistress was already gone. As he turned to the door, he saw the hemline of her dress as she hurried down the hall. _ I should let her go, _ he thought, but something in him needed to know more. Instead, he grabbed the lone candle, and he set off in haste to catch her.

At first, Jon knew his way around the halls. The sound of Daenerys’ steps echoed between the stone walls, and he easily determined the direction in which she had ran. He knew at once that she was heading for the main entrance. Still, as he turned the corner, his eyes prepared to gaze upon the rib vault, he was instead met with a new hall of doors.

Jon paused as he took in a deep breath, his lips prickling. When he looked around, he did not recognise the place, but he was more disturbed when he turned to glance back from where he came. For behind him now stretched another hall, so long that he could not see the end as it was clad in shadows.

A cold sweat broke out across his body. _ It is just my imagination, _ Jon thought, and he forced himself to carry on, his steps slower now as he eyed each door he passed. _ It is as I thought - I have entered darkness, and in it I find the evil of the house. _

“Mr Snow,” a woman’s voice called out to him, and Jon stopped to listen. He thought he heard footsteps. He held out his candle, but the fickle light barely illuminated his surroundings. A shadow swiftly passed on his right, and the door slammed shut before he could turn to look. “Mr Snow,” the voice called again from within the room.

Jon licked his lips. Then, without further pause, he reached out and opened the door.

There, upon a bed, lied a woman. Blood was running down the wooden frame, and it slipped like a river across the floor, all the way to the tips of his shoes. Still what shocked Jon was her face, for he recognised her at once.

“Mother,” he said vexed. He had seen her face in the old paintings his father had kept, and he had almost convinced himself that was all she ever was - a piece of art and not a living human being. Yet there she was, as alive as himself. “Is it truly you?”

The woman paid him no heed. She was crying, he noticed, the light from the moon falling in on her face, and her tears wet her black hair, making the locks stick to her skin. She wriggled beneath her duvet as she moaned in pain, her hands reaching out into the air. “My son,” she whispered to no one, “let me hold my son before I die.”

“Mother-” Jon spoke again, but before he could reach out for her, the door slammed shut in his face. For a second, he paused in shock, sweat rolling down his cheeks. Then, he grabbed at the handle and forced the door open once more as he stumbled inside.

A woman laid in bed, and Jon rushed to her side, but when she looked at him, he realised this was not his mother. As the candlelight fell on her face, a pair of violet eyes glanced up at him. They were filled with tears, and the woman wailed and stretched a pair of hungered hands out for him. “My daughter,” she wept, “let me hold my daughter before I die.”

Jon stared at the woman, her fingers clinging onto his shirt, and he tried to figure out if this was a demon’s trick. His education told him not to engage, for he might end up fooled. Yet, his heart would not allow him to leave a dying woman’s side, whatever or whoever she was, and instead he closed his own warm hand around her cold one as he asked: “Who is your daughter?”

Yet the woman did not reply. She pushed her head back into her pillow as she cried: “Let me hold my daughter before I die!”

At once, the sound of a door slamming caused Jon to turn. He glanced toward the end of the room and saw that the doorway to another chamber had been exposed. Though he could not see into the room, he could hear voices, and one he recognised to be his father’s:

“No son of mine will make a living of what does not exist.”

Jon held forward his candle as he tried to light up the chamber ahead but to no avail. In order to see more, he had to leave the woman, and it was with a feeling of guilt that he wriggled free of her pleading hands and started walking toward the room.

The woman still wailed behind him, but the closer he got to the chamber, the more his father’s voice overshadowed her painful crying.

“Don’t settle for a life of poverty. Get wed, offer me a grandson, and you can take over the family business. It shall be as it has always been.”

Jon felt his heartbeat quicken as he recognised the words. Those were the last his father had spoken before he left his home for London. _ Only a demon would know my past this well, _ he thought, _ a demon who has rummaged my very mind for this information. _ The idea alone sent a shiver down his back, but it also made him clench his teeth in anger. “No one has the right to my memories,” he whispered and pushed the door open as he stepped inside.

Yet, it was not his father that faced him, but the back of a silver haired man. He was young and slim, and he stood alone in the desolate room, speaking to the darkness.

“You shall wed,” he said, his tone of voice lighter than his father’s, but his words just as sharp, “you shall bear children, and then carry on the family bloodline. It shall be as it has always been.”

Jon glanced around the dark room, but, seeing no one, held the candle toward the figure of the man as he spoke: “Who are you?”

The man perked up at the sound of Jon’s voice, but he remained standing where he was. It was only as Jon started making his way across the creaky floorboards toward him that he slowly started turning.

“Who are you?” Jon asked again. Though he felt fear deep in his heart, he tried to keep his voice steady. “What is happening?” He was now only inches away from the man, and he reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder as he forcefully turned him around. Jon was prepared to gaze into the man’s eyes, but not at what he did see; for the man had no face. His sockets were empty, and his skin was charred and melting, and he barely had any flesh covering his teeth. They were bared in a grin.

“What is happening?” the man repeated his question.

Jon gasped and stepped away from him, but his back pushed flat against a wall. In fact, he found that the chamber closed in on them so quickly it made him feel sick. Soon, he was face to face with the decaying man who grinned at him, his rotting breath caressing Jon’s face as he spoke:

“Oh, Mr Snow, only what your heart desires.”

* * *

“You put a right fright in me!”

Jon glanced up as Missandei entered the small kitchen. She held forward an oil lamp, and the light shone into his eyes and caused him to blink. He realised that it must have been hours since he fled the halls to the warmth of the fireplace, yet time seemed a strange concept after the night’s adventures.

“My apologies,” Jon spoke and made a move to get up, but Missandei waved for him to stay seated.

She eyed him with suspicion, but still her voice was pleasant enough as she asked: “Would you care for tea?”

“I would like that very much,” Jon agreed. He rubbed his tired eyes as he waited for the servant to ask more questions, but it seemed she did not wonder about his early rising. Instead, she started boiling the water and washing up two mugs for their use, and Jon dully watched her as his mind worked its way across the night’s events once more.

He had come face to face with the dead, he was certain of it. Some had been people from his own life, whilst others appeared to be people who once lived in the Targaryen estate. His mind was especially troubled by the man who spoke to him from behind a sheet of melted skin. _ Was he present during the fire? _ he wondered, _ Did he come from the burned wing? _

As the hot brew was placed in front of him, Jon gratefully wrapped his cold fingers around the mug and let the steam warm his face. Missandei seated herself next to him, her brown eyes watching him carefully.

“Have you fallen ill?” she asked.

Jon wiped his skin and found it still to be clammy. “I am merely cold,” he said.

“You have claimed the closest seat to the fire,” Missandei pointed out, and Jon knew he could not deny this. His back was warmed by the flickering flames, and yet he felt chilled to the bone. “You are also pale. If you bring sickness from London, I ask that you tell us at once,” she continued, her voice curt.

Jon shook his head with haste. “I do not,” he promised. He sipped his tea and sighed. “I did not sleep last night.”

“Did you find yourself haunted?” Missandei asked, and her question made Jon stir and eye her with furrowed brows.

“Whatever do you mean?” he asked. “Is there something you know?”

But she just shrugged and turned her own mug between her fingertips. “Miss Targaryen has taken a liking to you,” she spoke slowly, “this is apparent to all. Do not think I am as easily fooled.”

“Are you calling your mistress a fool?”

“Not my mistress,” she spoke through gritted teeth.

Jon smiled a little. “No, that you have made clear a few times.”

Missandei eyed him with hesitation. “Beware, Mr Snow - sometimes,” she said, “our actions have consequences beyond our own knowledge.”

Jon glanced up into her eyes. Part of him wanted to ask her what she meant by that, but a greater part of him knew to keep quiet. Instead he finished his tea and stood up. “I fear I am fatigued,” he said, “I will go to bed. If the mistress asks for me, please give her my apologies.”

“You can offer them to her yourself,” Missandei spoke plainly.

Jon watched her for a moment longer, then just nodded solemnly. “I suppose I can,” he agreed before leaving the kitchen for his chamber.

> * * *
> 
> _ 07/10/1802: _
> 
> _ I fear I am going insane. Shadows of what was have danced around me, and they have teased me to indulge in the misery that once was. My heart cannot bear it. In truth, I am scared - whatever will I face the next time the sun sets? Whatever will become of me if I do not put an end to the madness that surrounds me? _
> 
> _ I can no longer sleep. I close my eyes, but my lids force themselves open. I am on edge. I watch every shadow, I listen to every footstep, I shiver at every voice. The quiet is so loud here on the countryside. I am persistently made aware of my own existence for the shadow is always mine, the footsteps is always mine, and the voice is always mine. _
> 
> _ I must face Miss Targaryen, but how can I? She only speaks to me with kindness, yet she appears before me as a demon and constantly leads me astray. Is she too just my own existence? Is she too my shadow, my footstep, my voice? _
> 
> _ When I lie in bed, I cannot tell up from down. I cannot tell day from night. I have turned the mirror, for I fear I will not be able to tell myself from my reflection. I should go back to London, but if I leave, it will be my failure. _
> 
> _ I must succeed. I must succeed. I must succeed. _

* * *

That eve, Jon sat in the drawing room leisurely sipping wine as Daenerys played the piano. Her hands were skilled, and the way in which her fingertips slipped across the keys mesmerized him and kept him as entertained as the music did.

He was dressed plainly in a short blue jacket suit whilst she adorned a pale pink dress with a flounced skirt. The ruffles moved every time she did, and after a while he was lulled into a pleasant state of daydreaming.

Perhaps it was the wine that calmed his nerves, for Jon had been unable to sleep since he reached his chamber. Instead, he felt a constant pain in his chest. It was like a knot of fear that he couldn’t unravel, and it had grown when he was requested to come down after dinner. He knew etiquette demanded that he showed, and so he had dressed and smiled politely at Jorah when he escorted him to the drawing room, but he had thought to himself: _ I wish to be anywhere but where she is. _

Yet, the moment he entered the room, a feeling of calm descended upon him. It was so peculiar it should have made him wary, but instead he relished feeling his muscles relax and his heartbeat slow. Because the moment he laid eyes on Daenerys at the piano, he could not help but smile, and he had to hold back from tapping his feet to the joyful tune that she played.

_ I am too tired to care, _ he thought to himself as the wine lingered on his lips. The realisation should make him perk up, still he found himself sink deeper into the comfort of carelessness. _ I just want to enjoy myself, even if just for this one eve, and not linger on the darkness within me. _

As if on cue, Daenerys glanced toward him, and she smiled so sweetly than Jon felt his cheeks warm. “Mr Snow, are you any good at playing?” she asked.

Jon put down his glass and sat up a bit more straight. “I am afraid I never learned to play an instrument.”

“I am sorry,” Daenerys spoke in honest, her fingers still travelling the keys, “there is little I take more pleasure in than expressing myself through music.” She licked her fingertips and turned the sheet of music swiftly, then began the next song. “In what do you find freedom?”

“What a grand question,” Jon spoke, and he realised that it was. “I suppose my work.”

“Buying land brings you pleasure?” Daenerys chuckled.

Jon, remembering that she knew nothing of his actual reasons to be at her estate, cleared his throat as he tried to frame his answer in a fitting manner. “No, not the act of buying,” he said slowly as he chose his words with care, for he felt her eyes on him as he spoke, “I suppose it’s meeting others that pleases me. I enjoy gaining new acquaintances. I feel there is something to be learned from every person I meet.”

He worried his answer was too vague, but when he looked into Daenerys’ eyes, he found only admiration. “That’s a sensible way to conduct yourself,” she agreed. “Pray tell - do you consider me an acquaintance, Mr Snow?”

Once more, Jon felt his cheeks heat, and he grasped for the glass of wine, his eyes unable to break with hers. “I suppose.”

“That is a shame,” Daenerys spoke, and she turned back to her piano, the tune picking up in pace. As she played, Jon felt himself unable not to ask:

“Why is that a shame?”

“Well,” she spoke, “perhaps it’s the association I have with the word. It seems so distant and cold, and my feelings for you are anything but.”

Jon blinked in surprise at her daring words. “Miss, forgive me, I meant no disrespect.”

“In there lies the issue.” Daenerys finished the tune, her fingers lingering on the keys until the last bit of sound had left the piano. Then, she lifted her hands and instead rested them in her lap as she eyed him. “Mr Snow, you always beg forgiveness, and apologise, and ask that no one takes notice of your being. In this, you are kind, but you also hide yourself. Politeness is but a mask that we all wear.”

Jon contemplated her words. “I suppose you are correct, miss,” he finally said after a moment of hesitation, “yet without politeness, what state would our society be in?”

“Think not in such grand terms,” she asked and stood up, and Jon rushed to his feet not to seem impolite. Given their talk, it made her laugh. “There you go again, a perfect gentleman. I meant what I spoke at breakfast the other day - action is a trait I admire in men.”

“Kindness not?” Jon queried.

Daenerys smiled softly. “Kindness and politeness are not the same, I am afraid. I grew up amongst politeness. You soon find that the cruelest men are the best at bowing.” She rested her hands at her front as she slowly walked toward him, her eyes taking in his frame. Jon found himself straightening up just a little bit more.

“Are you asking me to be frank?” he asked and glanced down at her.

Daenerys shrugged a little, the ruffles dancing around her body. “I suppose I am asking for your honesty. You did promise me to be upfront in matters.”

“I did,” Jon agreed.

“Then please tell me what you make of me.”

Jon blinked at the question, and he found himself unable to form a perfect sentence. Perhaps she sensed his hesitation, for she pressed:

“I am not asking for politeness.” She reminded him: “I want your honesty.”

“When we first met, I was besmitten with your beauty,” he admitted boldly, and he feared she would blush, but instead she smiled. In a way, it gave him courage, and he continued: “My heart beats the same as it did then, and so I find my eyes did not betray me. You have been kind, and generous with me, this I cannot deny.”

“But?” she asked.

Jon swallowed. “But I find your home not to be mine.”

“Do you find yourself haunted?” Daenerys asked, and Jon at once recognised Missandei’s words.

He parted his lips to speak, but before a sound could escape them, Daenerys placed her hands on his, and her warm fingers fitted perfectly between his own.

“Do not be afraid,” she whispered, and she glanced up at him from between her black eyelashes. Her violet eyes seemed to glimmer in the fickle light from the candles around them, and Jon felt blood rush through his body with renewed strength. “For when darkness reigns, the single flame shines all the brighter.”

“I do not understand,” he admitted in his own whisper.

Daenerys stepped closer to him, so much so that he could feel the soft silk of her dress on his hands, her warm breath on his lips. “I will show you,” she said.

Jon was not certain who leaned in, but when he felt their lips meet, he made no move to pull away. Instead, he pushed himself closer to her, wanting to feel her against him. His arms were at her waist. Her hands nestled at his nape. His lips tasted the tart wine on her own plump ones, the scent of her breath sweet.

“Tonight,” she whispered to his lips, and he swallowed every word, “you will understand.” With that, she let go of him as she stepped away, and he felt the softness of her dress slipper from between his fingertips. For a moment, he kept his eyes shut as he lingered on the feeling, but when he blinked them back open, she was gone, the door to the room left wide open.

_ Tonight I shall know, _ he thought to himself, and he felt his heartbeat quicken. _ It is a promise. _

* * *

It was long past midnight when Jon finally succumbed to sleep, yet he did not remain this way for long. For in the dark night, he was awoken by the joyful sound of a piano being played.

_ Is she still entertaining? _ Jon pondered as he blinked his eyes open and gazed around his dark chamber. He slipped out of bed and listened at his door, and surely he could hear the faint sound of a piano echoing down the hall. _ She promised me that I would know tonight, _ Jon reminded himself, and he quickly donned a simple pair of trousers and a shirt, _ I suppose this could be her way of calling me. _

He was uncertain, yet he had no fear in his heart as he set off down the hall toward the sound. The walk to the drawing room seemed longer than before, but his spirits were lifted by the tunes ringing in his ear, and so he didn’t count his steps until he finally found himself stood outside the door to the drawing room. This time, he did not bother knocking - Jon grabbed at the handle and pushed the door open, but he was shocked at the sight that met him.

Instead of the delicately decorated room, he gazed into a prized ballroom. The floor stretched before him, large and shined, and upon it danced more men and women than he had ever seen before. All were dressed in their best gowns and suits, and the ladies’ jewellery shined in the grand light that prided every wall. Alas, the music was not played by Daenerys, Jon noted, but a full band - at the end of the room, upon a raised platform, stood a gathering of men showcasing their skills at the piano, the violin, and the horn. Their tunes were joyful and fitting for an occasion of cheer, and all within the ball seemed in a good mood.

Jon was so surprised that he found himself frozen for a moment, unable to understand what was playing out before him, and it wasn’t until he was approached that he realised he was not fantasizing.

“Mr Snow,” a woman spoke. She was a beauty; her hair was silver-blonde, and her smile gentle. She wore a green gown decorated with fine silver embroideries that seemed to slip around her small frame. When she curtsied, Jon bowed in awe. He could not remember the last time a member of the estate had shown him such common courtesy.

“Miss,” he spoke, not knowing what name to add, and it seemed to humour her, for instead of taking offence she offered him her hand. Jon took it, but he shook his head in embarrassment. “Forgive me, miss, I am afraid I do not know your name.”

“I am Rhaenys Targaryen,” she spoke gently, and Jon blinked at her in awe.

“You’re a Targaryen?” he repeated, “How can that be?”

“How could it not?” Rhaenys replied amused, “This is a Targaryen ball after all.”

_ But all the Targaryens are dead. There is just the mistress left, _ Jon thought, yet it was true; when he looked more closely at the woman, he realised that her eyes were indeed purple, and the silver shine to her hair was not caused by the bright light within the hall but a natural feature of her beauty.

As the woman made no sign of moving away, Jon squeezed her hand and admitted: “I am at a loss.”

“Quite contrary - you are at a ball,” she reminded him with a chuckle.

“I fear I should not be here,” Jon spoke, and he took a step back toward the door through which he came. “I fear that has been a mistake. I should return to bed.”

“If you’re meant to be asleep, do tell why you are dressed for dancing?” Rhaenys queried.

It was then that Jon looked down himself and noticed that he was no longer in his simple shirt- instead, he was dressed in a black tailcoat and white trousers befitting for the occasion.

Before he could make sense of his situation, Rhaenys pulled him by the hand and urged: “Come dance with me!”

His hand in hers, they swirled beneath the glimmering chandelier. Jon felt so breathless he forgot for a moment to be concerned, and instead he felt his body ache with joy at being part of such a grand ball. All around them were things of beauty, and Jon’s eyes feasted on the grand displays of wealth.

“From where did you all come?” Jon asked and he looked at Rhaenys with raised brows. “I heard no coaches in the night.”

“Why, we have always been here,” Rhaenys replied.

“It cannot be. I have stayed for a week. I have seen no one but the mistress and her servants.”

“Which mistress would that be?” Rhaenys asked and cocked her head, and it was only then that Jon looked around them and realised that it was not just her who flashed silver hair and purple eyes. In fact, many of the couples who passed them by had the same features, the men as well as the women.

_ I am surrounded by Targaryens. _ Jon stopped in the midst of the dancefloor as he swirled around on the spot, his eyes big and wide at the realisation. _ They no longer exist, yet I am surrounded by them. _ What troubled him more was that they all seemed to know him, for when he bumped shoulders, they would all bow their heads at him and say:

“My apologies, Mr Snow.”

“What is this place?” Jon whispered. “Whatever is the occasion?”

“Why, miss Daenerys Targaryen is due to be wed,” Rhaenys spoke as she stepped to his side. She smiled gently at him, more so when he eyed her with confusion.

“She is to be wed?”

“It is her brother’s wish.”

Jon swallowed, but he found his mouth was dry. “Do tell - where is her brother?” Jon asked, but Rhaenys did not have to reply - as soon as the question left his lips, the floor cleared, and Jon found himself moving with the crowd toward the wall as a couple strode down the midst of the hall.

At once, Jon recognised the man; his frame was lean, and his hair bright silver, and his face one he had seen before, although not in this state. In his mind, the melted sheen of skin formed back around the skull he saw last night, and once the violet eyes rested back in the sockets of the skull, he realised that the man before him was the one he had faced in his dreams.

_ This is Viserys Targaryen, _ Jon realised, _ the brother who perished in the fire. _

At his side was Daenerys. She was dressed in a bright red gown, and when she walked, the fabric moved around her slender frame like long, licking flames. His gaze was led from her hemline to her face, her eyes stoic, and her lips pushed into a polite smile which revealed nothing about her emotions. Down her back her hair fell in silver ringlets like water dripping off a mountain. She was a sight of beauty, and Jon’s heart ached with longing.

He did not wait for long - with a clap from the mistress, the band started playing again, and all around him the men and women rushed to join the dance on the floor. Yet Daenerys stood still, and so did he, and through the crowd, their eyes met.

As Jon walked, so did she, and when they reached one another, Jon bowed, and she curtsied, and, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, their hands joined as they danced.

And it was as if nothing else existed, for when Jon looked into her eyes, he found peace, and when she spoke, he found sense.

“I am glad you decided to join me, Mr Snow,” she said.

“I hear you are to be wed,” he spoke.

Daenerys smiled and shook her head, the locks of hair dancing around her pale face. “I was,” she admitted, “though it never came to be.”

“Your husband to be?” Jon asked, “what happened to him?”

“He perished in the flames,” Daenerys said. “So did a great many people.”

“Your brother as well.”

Daenerys offered a pained smile. “Husband to be. Brother. They are but one and the same.”

Jon blinked. “Surely, you jest?”

“I told you when we first met - do not take me for a jester.” Daenerys swirled, and Jon led her, their feet gracefully flowing around the floor. As they moved, he felt light. Almost as if he did not step at all. Almost as if he was floating.

“I am sorry,” he spoke in honest as they were face to face once more. He looked into her kind eyes, his own filled with pain. “I cannot imagine such horrific situation.”

“It never came to be,” Daenerys said, “do not offer me grief, for I have long moved past this.”

“I am still not sure I understand,” Jon admitted. “What is this place? What is happening to me?”

Daenerys let go of his hand as she reached up to cup his face. Her warm palms caressed his cheeks, and Jon leaned down until their foreheads rested against one another. “Mr Snow,” she whispered and locked eyes with him. “You always look for demons within, when they are always around us.”

“I do not understand,” he repeated. “What is this place?”

“You know the place,” Daenerys said and pecked his lips. “Just look around.”

When Jon straightened up, he found himself twirling on a broken stone floor, and all around him were no longer glimmering oil lamps, but wet exposed walls. For he was not in a ballroom, but in the burned wing of the castle, and he was not in a suit, but in his plain clothes. The wetness on his lips was not even from a kiss, but the light drizzle of rain from above.

Jon stopped in his tracks as he breathlessly stared across the rolling hills surrounding the castle, the tips of his bare toes resting on the edge of the collapsed first floor. “I have danced with the dead,” he realised at once, and he shivered in the cool night breeze, “and they have told me the truth.”

* * *

> _ 08/10/1802: _
> 
> _ I find that judgement falls me easy. I say I use science to determine the state of people’s situation, yet I wonder if my heart ever wished to reveal the truth. I have always chased shadows. I have always fought demons. I have always wrestled with ghosts. I have seen them in others, and I have claimed to offer relief through my methods. _
> 
> _ Alas! I have been a fool. For whilst I deemed those around me to be possessed, I never stopped to think about my own situation. I have hidden behind means offered to me with wealth - fine fabric has clad my body, etiquette has protected my sense of importance, education has secured my name. How I have wasted my life. How I have let my youth slip away. _
> 
> _ For I have spent my life searching for the evil within people. Now I find that the darkness has always been within me. _

* * *

Jon sat on the steps to the Targaryen estate and let the autumn morning light warm his hands. He was dressed for a day out; his coat was thickened with wool, gloves rested on his lap ready for wearing, and his boots were sturdy and fitting for walking.

Yet, he did not stir as he heard the door behind him open, and someone descending the stone steps. It wasn’t until Daenerys settled next to him that he glanced toward her.

“Good morning, miss,” he greeted, and she bowed her head.

“Good morning, Mr Snow,” she replied.

Jon glanced across the courtyard. The coachman was walking around the estate toward the stable, and he shot him a dirty look. Jon could only smile. “You are a very good dancer, miss,” he spoke and blinked at the sharp sun, “I hope you’ll honour me with another dance soon.”

“I sense you got the answers you’ve been seeking?” Daenerys asked.

“And more,” Jon admitted. For a moment, they sat in quiet. Then, Jon asked: “Miss, did you know my purpose all along?”

“You are not the first to judge me harshly, nor my household,” Daenerys replied. “A woman who lives in her own right is a woman to be scorned. A woman who survives when a man doesn’t is a woman to be feared. So they say, don’t they?”

“So they do,” he nodded.

Daenerys sighed and rested her hands in her lap as she eyed the sky with him. It was a clear day - not a single cloud rested on the blue above. “All in this castle have fought demons,” she said, “and all have found peace. There is less madness here than there is salvation. This place forces you to see yourself, and once you do, you can fight the darkness with light.”

“So you said,” Jon remembered, “but I fear I have no more light within me. I have succumbed to injustice. I judged you harshly when I should have seen my own blame. Miss, I should not stay.”

“Contrary, you should,” Daenerys said. She reached out and closed her hand around his, and Jon could do nothing but look at her fingers closing around his own. “You have judged others, this is true. But these past nights, you have also judged yourself. I sense in you a light, Mr Snow, and light will always be stronger than the shadows, for it lives the best where darkness reigns.”

Jon glanced into her eyes, and he whispered: “But miss, what if I cannot find my way in the dark?” But instead of causing distress, his question made the mistress smile.

“Then I shall reach you with my own light,” she promised, “and together we shall face whatever demons may come.”

Jon lifted her hand to kiss it, for he knew she spoke in honest, and for once his body did not ache. Instead, it felt at peace, for he could relish in no longer hiding, and instead face himself without fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can only apologise for the time it took me to finish this - hopefully, it was worth the wait! My next project is a Christmas one, so keep your eyes out for that. I am also still working on a longer viking story, so I am pleased to say that I am not idle!
> 
> Thank you to DragonandDirewolf for the wonderful art. It captures the heart of the story. Please see her Tumblr for more art!


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